Kiss And Make It Better
by sleepyowlet
Summary: Branwen Cousland is torn up over Alistair after the defeat of the Archdemon. Loghain is concerned about her and offers comfort. k!meme prompt response


Title: Kiss And Make It Better

Rating: M

Author: owlet

A.N.: a k!meme prompt response. If it is well received, I'll post the others too.

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Kiss And Make It Better

by owlet

She was walking the halls of Vigil's Keep like a ghost ever since they'd made their home there. She fulfilled her duties, going through the reports of Darkspawn sightings, soothing the bickering Banns of the Amaranthine Arling, watching over the training of the Grey Warden recruits; but when the day's work was done she retreated into her own little world, and it was obvious to Loghain that it wasn't a happy place.

Frankly, he worried about her. She didn't live, she functioned; she barely ate and slept even less, wasting away before everyone's eyes. The worst thing was that he knew what was eating her; her foolish love for the boy on the throne, now married to his daughter. She could have been queen, but had decided not to take that position. One of the things stabilizing a throne was an heir, and it was very hard for a Grey Warden to produce a child with a normal person due to the Taint; and next to impossible with another Warden. It was almost unheard of. With Anora there was at least a chance.

So Branwen Cousland had sacrificed her love and happiness for the good of Ferelden – something that he was very familiar with. It had been the same for him and Rowan; only Rowan had Maric to love her, and Loghain himself had chosen a lovely young woman to be his wife, shortly after the woman who meant the world to him had married his King and best friend. It wasn't love, but a certain mutual affection and respect had helped to dull the ache of his broken heart.

Branwen didn't have anyone to love her or at least offer some comfort. She was all alone in her pain, her companions had left soon after the coronation, each returning to their lives. Oghren was the only one who had stayed at her side and could merely helplessly watch her decline. The dwarf tried to be there for her, to distract her, but he wasn't what Branwen needed, and he knew that.

Loghain had developed a soft spot for her during their travels. She wasn't only a capable fighter and effective leader, but a genuinely nice, caring person. She had always a moment to spare for her companions, even for him, as much as that had surprised him. She had asked about his daughter, asked him what he wanted most, had found out about his fondness for maps, and had given him a few truly exquisite ones.

Loghain entered the courtyard of the keep. It was the last place he visited on his customary evening-round, it was deserted at this time of the day, slowly being swallowed by the growing darkness.

He looked up to where her window was, and saw the faint light there. Taking a deep breath he made a decision. He owed her. After his fall from grace she had helped him to pick up the pieces, had made his transition into this new life so much easier. The least he could do was to do the same for her.

The first thing he did as he returned to his quarters, was to get out of his armour. The recruits sometimes joked behind his back that he probably slept in the thing, and that this was why he was always so grumpy. He was comfortable in it, had worn it almost every day for thirty years, but even so, he did feel the weight of the Silverite plate after a long day, and was glad to shed it. The padding was next, followed by his shirt, both soaked with sweat. There was no sense in going to her reeking like an animal, so he filled the washing bowl on his dresser. Shedding the last of his clothes, he studied himself in the mirror.

The years had been kind to him, the thought, probably kinder than he deserved. His hair was as black as it had been in his youth, and his body was still firm; but there were scars on it, some pale and faded, some pink and newly healed. Some of those were her doing – the duel at the Landsmeet had left him in a bad shape. His face wasn't handsome, more like interesting, with an aquiline nose, a high forehead, a generous mouth and an oddly soft jawline. His eyes were of a clear blue colour, and had drawn in many a young woman, but now there were purple bags beneath them because he hadn't slept well in years. Ah well, nothing to be done about that, he thought, or about the scowl that had etched itself into his features over the years.

Loghain set about cleaning himself methodically, thinking about how to approach her. He had to draw her out somehow, make her forget herself. There were two effective ways of doing that, anger and something else entirely. Maybe she'd be receptive to a more amorous approach – she was very lovely, and he had noticed her eyes on him, when she thought, he wasn't looking.

Deeming himself suitably clean, he dried off and dressed in a simple shirt and breeches of soft doe-hide. After that he strode over to his desk and decided to occupy himself with some correspondence as he waited for his hair to dry.

Her room was right across from his in what once had been the Howe family-tract of the castle. Loghain knocked at her door and entered after she had called out for him to do so.

Branwen sat on her bed, a letter in her hands. Her face was tear-stained, so it wasn't difficult to guess who it was from.

"Loghain, what can I do for you?"

Her voice sounded a little raspy, and she avoided his eyes.

Closing the door, and taking a few cautious steps towards her, he answered, "Actually I was wondering, if there was anything I could do for you."

"No, thank you, I'm all right," she sighed, still not looking at him.

Loghain crossed the remaining distance and sat down on the edge of her bed.

"We both know that is a lie."

She looked so young and vulnerable sitting there in just her shift, her hair loose.

"What do you know? And why would you care," she challenged him.

"Tell me, what have you heard about Queen Rowan and me?"

She shot him a puzzled look.

"There were rumours that she had been with you before she married Maric."

"That's the truth. Rowan and I … loved each other very much. But Ferelden needed a Queen, so I had to let her go."

He had never talked about this to anyone. Saying it out loud was oddly liberating.

Branwen finally looked at him, wide eyed.

"How could you stand it?"

"I accepted that it was over and never looked back. I didn't torture myself with would-have-beens."

She let out a sob, hiding it in a laugh.

"How like you," she muttered derisively.

Loghain sighed. Well, at least she was talking to him. If she needed to vent her pain on him, so be it.

"As to why I care – I respect you. I like you; and it pains me to see you like this – a mere shadow of yourself."

"Pains you, does it?"

"I'm here, am I not?"

She deflated.

"Yes, you are."

So far, so good. He opened his arms.

"Come here."

She recoiled.

"What?"

Or not.

"When was the last time you could lean on somebody? The last time you weren't alone?"

"A long time ago," she whispered.

"Aren't you sick of it?"

She seemed to mull that one over.

"More than I can say," she finally sighed and scooted over to where he sat, gingerly leaning her head on his shoulder.

Loghain drew the young woman into a loose embrace, and the floodgates opened.

"I... I can't help it; I still love him so much," she sobbed into his shirt.

The Bastard didn't deserve that love, Loghain thought, rubbing Branwen's back in soothing circles, but it would be pointless to tell her that, since love was never deserved but simply given.

"The worst thing is, how can I? How can I still feel like that about him after he treated me like he did at the Landsmeet?"

That boy had behaved abominably then in Loghain's opinion.

"And before … he asked me to stay and be his … mistress. He actually had the gall to ask that of me! Nothing needs to change between us, indeed," she all but snarled, and he wove his fingers into her hair, kissing the top of her head. The King was very lucky to be so far away, very lucky indeed.

"And for a moment I was tempted to say yes," she whispered.

"And now he sends you letters and burdens you with his pain, as if you didn't have enough on your own," Loghain murmured into her hair.

"He's guilt-tripping me. And it's working. All of this can be rightly called my fault."

"Can it? Oh, yes, you could have killed me."

Branwen lifted her head to look at him.

"Completely out of question. You surrendered. You don't kill an enemy who surrenders."

"I probably would have killed you, surrender or not," Loghain said earnestly, wiping her tears from her cheeks with his thumbs.

"Maybe. In that case it is rather fortunate that I won the duel, isn't it," Branwen joked weakly.

"If you say so. I can't say that I'm too unhappy with the outcome; otherwise I never would have made the acquaintance of a truly remarkable young woman."

His compliment was rewarded with a wobbly smile.

Loghain pulled off his tear-stained shirt and cleaned her face with it, before letting it drop to the floor. His hands gently cradled her face, and Branwen swallowed and lowered her eyes in a gesture of acquiescence. Slowly, so he wouldn't scare her, Loghain lowered his lips to hers in a barely there, butterfly kiss. She didn't draw away so he deepened the kiss a little, nibbling at her lower lip. His hands left her face and tangled in her hair, then moved on to the nape of her neck and her shoulders, where he trailed his fingertips over her soft skin.

Branwen broke the kiss and drew back a little to look at him.

"Why are you doing this?"

Continuing his caresses, Loghain smiled at her reassuringly.

"Because I want to make you forget, at least for a little while. And because I desire you, but I think that is obvious."

"You are not going to tell me that you love me, are you?"

"No. Not unless I actually do."

"Good."

They resumed their kisses. Loghain smiled against her mouth when she gingerly started to touch him, her hands running over his shoulders and back, then up into his hair. Her body felt soft and pliant when he leisurely explored it, a lovely, graceful neck, generous hips and well-formed thighs. He carefully slipped a hand beneath her shift to touch the skin of her calf.

"May I," he asked, tugging at the fabric that covered her.

She swallowed.

"Yes."

Branwen helped him to pull the shift over her head, then folded her hands in her lap nervously. He thought her beautiful, her skin pale and luminous in the light of the solitary candle on her bedstead. But her eyes were wide and anxious again, her gaze flickering about the room. Hm, something to distract her then.

"Branwen."

"Yes?"

He smiled at her encouragingly, well, as much as one could with a face like his, he thought wryly.

"I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to. Not that I really could, I suppose. See this?"

He pointed out a vivid scar to her that was running from his collarbone to his right pectoral.

"Your handy-work. So is another one on my left calf, where you managed to slip a dagger beneath my armour. You are a beautiful woman; but you are also a fearsome enemy."

"So are you," she said, tracing the scar with her fingertips, "A fearsome enemy, I mean," she added, blushing at his amused grin.

"Maybe; but I'm not _your_ enemy, Branwen. Not any more."

Loghain combed his fingers through her soft, dark hair, pulling her in for another kiss.

"Show me the other one," Branwen asked shyly.

He did his best to hide his amusement at the flimsy pretext she gave to get him out of his breeches; she was already insecure enough – but he obliged, of course. Stretching out on her bed, he pointed the scar out to her. That injury had hurt like hell and had been the blow to send him to his knees. How he had hated her that moment... it felt like ages ago.

She traced this jagged pink line as well, then continued to his knee and followed the contour of a muscle in his thigh, before quickly snatching her hand away.

He pulled her close.

"Touch me all you want," he murmured into he hair, his hands rubbing soothing circles over the silky skin of her back, "I certainly won't object."

Loghain felt the young woman relax against him again. Encouraged, he started to trail open-mouthed kisses along her neck to her collarbone. She tasted as wonderful as she felt, her skin fragrant and slightly salty. He bit down gently on the juncture between neck and shoulder and was rewarded with a hitch in her breath and her delicate fingers in his hair.

He rolled her over and cupped one one of her breasts. It fit his hand perfectly, small, round, and firm as it was.

"Hm, lovely," he purred and kissed her, catching the little rosy bud between thumb and forefinger, rolling it carefully.

Branwen moaned into his mouth, shifting restlessly on the bed. He felt his own pulse quicken and moved his hips away from her; no need to alert her to the fact that he was growing hard just yet.

Loghain's lips moved to her other nipple and closed around it, his tongue teasing and flicking it.

Branwen was breathing faster now, her chest rising and falling more rapidly. He let her feel his teeth again, eliciting a moan. Seemed like she liked that sort of thing then, he thought, filing it away in his memory. Some other time perhaps, if she let him; tonight he would keep things languid and gentle.

Her fingers danced over his shoulders and along his spine, making him hum with pleasure. The nape of his neck had always been very sensitive; Celia had discovered pretty quickly that she could wheedle him into almost anything by licking and nibbling at this spot.

Chasing the thought of his late wife away, he proceeded to kiss his way down over the gentle swell of Branwen's abdomen.

She sighed and opened her legs for him; his gaze fell on the dark curls between them, then on the delicate folds beneath, already wet and glistening.

Loghain turned his head slightly and closed his eyes. Kissing the smooth skin of her inner thigh he valiantly tried to control himself. He could smell her arousal, a heavy, tangy scent that made him think of sweltering summer days moments before a thunderstorm; he wanted to grab her hips and bury his tongue inside of her, greedily lick and suck at her juices – but that would probably scare her. No, he had to go slowly here. His hands went to her hips and he didn't grab them; he cradled them instead, caressing, not restraining her.

She tensed but didn't protest. Anticipating then, not scared.

He pressed a gentle kiss to the plump lips framing her sex, letting her get used to his presence there. She sighed, so he nibbled at them with his lips, waiting for a sign from her to go further. There, she had shifted her hips towards him, so he slipped his tongue into those fascinating, pink creases.

Oh he had missed this; the divine scent and taste of a woman. Creamy, salty, with a hint of musk – there was nothing that could quite compare. Branwen's hips undulated against him, trying to guide him to the little nub that sat where her nether lips met. He decided to take the hint and give her what she wanted – teasing her could wait for another time. And if he got his way (which he usually managed to) this wouldn't be the only occasion; he had no intention of letting this delicious creature slip away again after (literally) having had a taste of her.

Branwen's breath became quite unsteady as he continued to caress her with his tongue; the sweet little sounds of pleasure escaping her lips went straight to his groin.

She mewled in protest as his mouth left her glistening core.

Kissing his way back up, he looked into her face. The sight nearly undid him – her eyes were wide, pupils dilated, her skin was flushed and her moist lips parted.

"Branwen?"

She grabbed his head and pulled him down for a kiss.

"Please," she breathed against his lips, "please, I need..."

He pressed his length against her, and her hips shot up to meet him. No doubt what she meant then. He carefully entered her in one smooth motion, holding still for a moment to let her get accustomed to him, even if that severely tried his self-control. She felt so wonderfully warm and wet, her inner muscles clenching around him, but he waited until she moved her hips before beginning to thrust slowly.

Her legs closed around him, and her hands caressed the nape of his neck again.

"Oh ... oh, yes," she panted, straining against him.

He captured her lips again, distracting himself with the dance of their tongues. It had been too long – he had trouble holding on. Moving a hand between them to caress her little pearl, he closed his eyes and buried his face against her neck, letting his thrusts become deeper.

He silently thanked the Maker when Branwen tensed up and clenched around him with a throaty moan, and he spilt himself inside her a moment later.

He didn't move for a moment, wasn't able to. Branwen didn't loosen her hold on him either as she caught her breath. They kissed again, slowly, languidly and finally her limbs fell away from him and he withdrew, collapsing on his back next to her.

Branwen propped herself up on one elbow and looked at him, her eyes haunted again.

Damn.

"Would you like me to leave," he asked gently.

"No," she said, "please stay."

Loghain reached up to her face and ghosted his fingertips over her cheek.

"Come here then."

Her smile was heartbroken and heartbreaking at the same time when she settled against him, her head on his shoulder and his arms around her.

She held on to him for dear life, and Loghain promised himself two things: He would chase the ghosts from Branwen's eyes, and he would somehow make the Bastard King pay for what he had done to her.

And if it was the last thing he did.


End file.
